The Silver Lining
by Glisseo
Summary: Collection of Harry/Ginny prompt fills/one-shots from tumblr, under the most unimaginative title ever.
1. Particularly Happy Hour

**Prompt fill for "Ginny and Harry early relationship adorableness?"**

It seemed almost too good to be true, a rare spell of glorious weather coinciding with the happiest weeks of Harry's life, but he wasn't about to complain; he had better things to do nowadays, like spending every free hour he had down by the lake with Ginny.

"I really ought to be revising …"

"You said that half an hour ago."

"Well, it's still true." Ginny rolled over onto her front, propping herself up on one elbow, and squinted at Harry. "You know, as the older, responsible one, you're supposed to tell me to put my education first."

"Who d'you take me for, Hermione?" he asked disbelievingly. "I'd never say that …"

"So I can blame you if I fail my OWLs, then?"

"Might as well. Although it might be the last straw for your mum," he added worriedly, "after I gave Fred and George the money for the shop … she might think I'm a bad influence."

"You are," said Ginny sternly. "Look! _Forcing_ me to lie in the sun with you every day, you terror, and then there's the matter of the tattoo –"

"Oh, yeah - I got another one, did I tell you?"

"Ooh, what's it this time?"

"Well, it's Slughorn, on a unicorn," said Harry, maintaining a straight face with some difficulty, "and _he's_ got a tattoo of a unicorn on – er – a dragon. And the unicorn has a moustache, too."

"The one Slughorn's riding, or the one in his tattoo?"

Harry thought about it. "Er - both."

Ginny burst out laughing, and he grinned.

"I am _very_ interested in seeing that," she said, eyeing him with a look that made his knees feel rather like jelly. "Where is it, did you say?"

"Erm, left foot. Fourth toe." Harry gestured. "It's very small."

"That's not what you want to hear," Ginny giggled.

Harry gaped at her for a moment, then snorted.

"I think you're right, you _should_ be revising …"

Still giggling – it was rapidly becoming one of his favourite sounds, that - she said, "you could test me, if you're so keen."

"All right, what's Flitwick's favourite colour?"

"Yeah, I was thinking more along the lines of things that'll actually be on my exams …"

"How do you know that won't be on your exams? So arrogant," said Harry, tutting. "I've done my OWLs, remember? I know things." He paused. "I mean, we were asked about Sprout's favourite food, but -"

"And?"

"And what?"

"What is Sprout's favourite food?" Ginny asked. "C'mon, the suspense is unbearable."

"Oh, right. Well, I don't know if I got it right, obviously, but I put - sprouts." He shrugged. "Thought it seemed logical."

"So what would be your logical guess at Flitwick's favourite colour?"

"Er … brown."

"Brown?" she repeated. "No one's favourite colour is _brown_."

Harry, looking into her bright, dancing eyes, had to silently disagree.

"Well - doesn't matter, does it? It's not _my_ problem now," he said, grinning at her.

Huffing, and muttering about _the indignity_ , she rolled onto her back again, but hooked her ankles over his. Her feet were bare, shoes and socks tossed aside, and her toenails were painted a lurid, sparkly purple.

It really was a blessing, the good weather, he thought, blinking up at the clear blue sky that stretched for miles above. Even though a number of other students were fanned out across the grounds, he and Ginny were largely concealed from prying eyes in a way that they wouldn't have been in the common room.  
(He didn't even dare imagine Ron's reaction if he were to take Ginny up to their dorm, but he thought it would probably be unpleasant.)

It was remarkably easy, in Ginny's presence, with her flowery scent on the warm summer air and vivid hair glimmering in the sunlight, to put out of mind Horcruxes and detention and Malfoy and all those problems he knew were not simply going to go away, but it felt so wonderful to have something else to not only distract him but make him genuinely happy. He could not help feeling that he had earned the right to be happy for a bit.

"Are you thinking again?" came Ginny's voice. "You know it's not good for you."

"Just a bit," said Harry. He glanced over at her: she was gazing upwards, but wore a little smile he knew was for him.

"Tell me something," he suggested.

"Like what?"

"I dunno – anything."

She appeared to think about it for a moment or two, chewing on her bottom lip, then said: "One of the gnomes back home is called Simon, and he speaks fluent Spanish."

Harry laughed. "Is that true?"

"What does it matter? You never said I should tell you something _true_."

"Fair enough," he conceded. "All right - tell me something true, then."

This time she was silent for much longer. Harry wondered if she might have fallen asleep - and then, worriedly, if he had in fact bored her to sleep – and was just about to look over and check when he felt her shift beside him –

Before he knew it, the sky had vanished, and Ginny was hovering over him, that smile still in place, sending his stomach into full acrobatics as she leaned in and kissed him with such intensity that his breath caught in his throat. After a few seconds, his mind cleared enough for him to reach up and wrap his arms around her, pulling her down fully.

"That was the best way I could think of to say it," she said when, several long minutes later, they separated, panting slightly.

"Ung," said Harry intelligently. "Er. Yeah. That was – well said." He exhaled, his heart rate still far faster than normal. "That was something true, was it?"

"Well, it wasn't a lie," said Ginny, smiling, and Harry decided to swiftly resume the kissing, which was very nice indeed.

"Was that the bell?" she said some time later, glancing up at the castle, where figures were disappearing up the stone steps.

"No," said Harry, kissing her again, "it definitely wasn't."

* * *

"I don't want to know," said Ron grouchily, when Harry slipped into Charms five minutes late with rumbled and grass-stained robes.

"That suits both of us, then."


	2. Really Divine

**Prompt fill for "Harry teases Ginny by telling his little kids about that Valentine she sent him when he was 12?"**

Harry had always enjoyed watching Ginny get ready, right from the early years when she would sneak out of his cottage at the break of dawn to get back to the Burrow before her mother noticed she was gone. Back then, she'd complained that his gaze distracted her, so that her fingers would fumble over her plait or the buttons of her shirt. Now, with eleven years of marriage behind them, she claimed that he no longer distracted her.

That, however, did not stop him from trying.

The sky was making a valiant attempt to snow on February 14th, even though it looked more like sleet to Harry's eye, and so naturally the children were even more overexcited than usual. Already bathed and pyjama-d in anticipation of Aunt Andromeda's arrival, they had clattered into their parents' bedroom shrieking and yelling, where Harry had made an attempt to wrestle them into submission. It had only half-worked; his three children were now at least stationary, surrounding him on the bed, but they were all chattering away at speeds he hadn't thought possible.

Over at the dressing table, Ginny gave him a patented _look_ in the mirror, eyeing his rumpled suit with exasperation. They'd long favoured Muggle restaurants for special events; on Valentine's Day in particular, places like Amortentia and The Everblooming Rose were bound to be packed with witches and wizards who would kill to espy the famous Potters on a romantic evening out.

Harry grimaced at his wife, who rolled her eyes and reached for her hairbrush.

"Daaaddy, why do you have to go?" Lily was demanding at the top of her voice. "I don't _want_ you to go …"

"Because it's Valentine's Day," Harry explained patiently. "Mummy and I are going to have a romantic meal. That's what mummies and daddies do on Valentine's Day."

"Valentine's Day is poo," James announced matter-of-factly. "I think girls are yuck."

"Give it a few years," Harry told him wisely. James looked horrified.

"Why a few years?" Albus asked curiously. "Rose already fancies a boy at school. He's got a bike and he thinks that's better than a broom –"

Harry could see Ginny's eyes widen in her reflection as she fastened on her earrings. "Al, you didn't tell this boy you had a broom, did you?"

"No," said Albus after a moment's hesitation. To Harry's amusement, he quickly changed the subject "So why does Rose already like boys but James thinks girls are yuck?"

"I dunno … I think girls notice boys earlier," said Harry thoughtfully. He saw that Ginny was starting on her make-up, and a wicked thought occurred to him. "I mean, Mummy was only eleven when she sent me my first Valentine –"

Ginny gasped; her hand, holding her lipstick, jerked, leaving a thick red line across her cheek. "Don't you _dare_ ," she hissed furiously.

"No, tell us!" the children begged.

Harry leant back against the pillows and gathered his children to him.

"It was my second year," he began reminiscently. Ginny's ears were turning scarlet as she reapplied her make-up. "We had the awful Professor Lockhart that year, and he made a great thing of Valentine's Day – he sent singing dwarves around the school to deliver Valentines."

"That's horrid," said James disgustedly. "I hope he got sacked."

"Er - in a manner of speaking," said Harry. "Anyway, imagine my surprise when, as I walked to my next lesson, one of the dwarves came up to me and said they had a singing Valentine for me."

"Mummy, you wrote a _song_ for Daddy?" Lily gasped. "How did it go?"

"That's a good question," Harry said quickly, before Ginny could speak – or possibly shout. "How _did_ it go? Do you know, it was so long ago, I can hardly remember …"

His wife eyed him beadily, knowing perfectly well that he _could_ remember, as James, Albus and Lily protested loudly.

"I think it went something like …"

Harry cleared his throat.

" _His eyes are as green as a fresh pickled toad,  
His hair is as dark as a blackboard.  
I wish he was mine, he's really divine,  
The hero who conquered the Dark Lord."_

When he finished, there was a dead silence.

"Mum," said James eventually, "that's crap."

"Now," Harry remonstrated sternly. "She was only eleven, remember. Give her a bit of credit. At least it rhymes."

"I think it's … nice," put in Albus, the eight-year old diplomat.

"Me too!" said Lily loyally. "I like the bit about the fresh pickled toad."

"That's my favourite part," Harry agreed solemnly.

Ginny, who was by now crimson in the face, opened her mouth, no doubt to make Harry wish he had never opened his own – but at that moment, the doorbell pealed loudly, and the children screamed in delight, tripping over each other's limbs in the furious attempt to reach the front door and greet Andromeda first.

"Are you ready?" Harry enquired delicately.

"I hope the sofa is comfortable enough for you tonight," was all Ginny said in reply.


	3. The Art of Love

**This is for a sentence prompt - "the paint's supposed to go WHERE?" - and I can only apologise for where my mind went.**

* * *

From the moment he stepped over the threshold of his house, Harry Potter had a sense that something was wrong. He was, of course, an excellent Auror - but, admittedly, it had slightly more to do with the fact that his oddly flustered wife was waiting for him in the hallway, gasping, "oh, thank goodness!" at soon as he came through the door.

"What's wrong?" Harry asked urgently, taking in her flushed face, over-bright eyes and dishevelled hair, which looked as if she'd been running her hands through it repeatedly. "Is it the kids? Your parents? What's happened?"

"No, no, nothing's happened!" Ginny assured him immediately. "Everyone's fine, the boys are at Mum and Dad's. It's just - well, we've had a - a - _delivery._ "

"A delivery?" Harry frowned, shrugging off his cloak and bag and stuffing them in the cupboard under the stairs. "What kind of delivery?"

"I think you'd better come and see for yourself."

Deeply confused - she was not usually this cryptic - Harry followed Ginny into the kitchen.  
He could see what she was referring to at once. The kitchen table was barely visible: it was strewn with the debris of a very well - and very garishly - packaged parcel (Ginny could never manage to unwrap anything tidily; she made more of a mess at Christmas than their young sons), which seemed to be a large cardboard box, pride of place in the middle of the sea of violet and magenta ribbon and tissue paper.

"What _is_ it?"

"It's from Madam Freya's Love Emporium," said Ginny, her lips twitching.

"… Madam who's _what?_ "

Ginny plucked a beribboned label from the mess and showed him. It read, in flowing calligraphic script:

 _Madam Freya_ _'_ _s Love Emporium_ _  
_ _Supplier of exotic aids_ _  
_ _to the art of love_ _  
_

"'Exotic aids to the art of love'?" Harry looked at his wife, unable to keep the horror from his expression. "That can't mean …"

"Oh, but it does," said Ginny. She pointed at the box. "Madam Freya herself sent us a whole range. She enclosed a note. Where is it … oh, here. _'_ _A little something to put the spice back in your marriage, darlings. No need to thank me - just enjoy._ _'_ And then there's a postscript: _'_ _Of course, if either of you were to mention it to the press, darlings, I would not object at all_ _'_."

"What makes her think the spice has gone from our marriage?" Harry demanded. "We had curry just the other week."

Ginny snorted. "Wait til you see what's actually _in_ here," she advised. The colour flooded to her face again: through her hair, Harry could see that her ears had gone scarlet, too. "It's - er - it's something."

Curious, he moved over to the box and peered inside. It was filled with an assortment of containers: glass jars, bottles, tubs …

"There's an instruction booklet," Ginny said rather worryingly, tossing it to him. He pulled up a chair and flipped through the strangely scented pages, throwing uneasy glances at the contents of the box as names like 'Exceedingly Erotic Foot Cream' jumped out at him. Everything seemed to have an alarmingly graphic description of its use.

"This is _ridiculous_ ," said Harry, feeling faintly scandalised. "Have you _seen_ all this stuff? Potions, _lotions_ , paint -" He broke off as he read the instructions, and his head shot up in abject horror. "Hang on. The paint's supposed to go WHERE?"

"I think it's … edible paint," said Ginny, blushing harder still.

" _Edible_ paint?" Harry stared at her. "Edible paint. Edible … and she wants us to _endorse_ this stuff? In public?"

"Oh my goodness, can you imagine if Rita found out?" Ginny giggled. "I can see the headline now: 'Potter Pair Put Porny Products to Practice'."

Harry laughed so hard his sides ached.

"There'd probably be little stickers on every product - "'The Chosen One's Choice'."

"With a picture of you giving the thumbs up." They were both in fits in laughter now, clutching at each other, until the instruction booklet slipped from Harry's lap to hit the floor with a _thwack_ that brought them back to sobriety.

There was a lengthy silence, broken only by Ginny's hiccups.

"We should send it back," she said eventually. "Shouldn't we?"

"Oh, yeah, definitely."

"I mean, I'm sure they're very, um, good -"

"Right, right - but we don't need them. And we certainly couldn't endorse them."

"Of course not."

"That's settled, then," said Harry. He got to his feet and pulled his wand from his pocket to rewrap the package. As garish as the wrappings were, the contents were actually rather nice-looking; the glass jars were gleaming in the sunlight pouring through the kitchen window. _Exotic aids_.

"You know," he began, "I'm thinking. Maybe it would be - er - rude, to send it back."

Ginny shot him a quizzical look. "Well, we can't just have it all lying around, what if the boys fou- _oh_." Her eyes widened as the penny dropped. "You mean …?"

"I dunno. Maybe. What do you think?"

They regarded each other seriously.

"OK," said Ginny, after a moment's hesitation, making a grab for the box. "But we're never, _ever_ telling anyone about this, and we're _definitely_ not writing back."

 **Later** **…**

"Perhaps we should send a thank you note, though."

… **and nine months after that**

 _The birth of a child is always a joyful occasion, and people all across the country were delighted last week when we revealed, exclusively, that Harry Potter and wife Ginevra had welcomed their third. (The gender, name and precise birthday of the child is as yet unknown as all family and friends of the Potters have refused to comment, with the exception of joke shop mogul George Weasley, who told_ Witch Weekly _on Tuesday:_ _"_ _it_ _'_ _s at least half human, and almost definitely Harry_ _'_ _s_ _"_ _._

 _But since then, new information has come to light which may put a different slant on the circumstances. Was the Potters_ _'_ _third child, as they will claim, a planned addition to their wholesome family? Or - as now seems the case - was it in fact the result of the obscene acts that clearly go on behind closed doors?_

 _Days after we reported news of the birth, we were contacted by entrepreneur Madam Freya, founder of_ Madam Freya's Love Emporium _(premises as yet unsecured)._

 _"_ _Nine months ago exactly, I sent the Potters a selection of my finest products,_ _"_ _she revealed._ _"_ _I knew they already had two young children, and they_ _'_ _re both busy people, and these things do take the spark out of a marriage. Well, that_ _'_ _s what I_ _'_ _m here for, and I was happy to supply them with aids free of charge, asking nothing in return._ _"_

 _And fortunately so, for she received nothing in return - until now. Madam Freya considers helping to bring a new child into the world perfect repayment for her services._

"

 _I knew at once it wasn_ _'_ _t a coincidence. How could it be, darling? My products work one hundred percent of the time, guaranteed. Part of what makes them so special is that most of the ingredients used are fertility aids. No, that child is a child of the_ Love Emporium _, make no mistake._ _"_

 _No doubt readers will be shocked at the revelation that such prominent social figures - often considered to be role models - are engaging in what some might call disgusting and debauched behaviour. Some might even ask the question of how we can trust such people to contribute to our society - or even raise children - when they clearly have questionable morals. Perhaps, though, this is only to be expected from a couple who are both known to come from troubled backgrounds - not to mention the fact that Ginevra_ _'_ _s parents, Arthur and Molly Weasley, had seven children themselves. It is surely not unreasonable, given the evidence, to suggest that sex addiction may run in the family - but it certainly does not bode well for the three Potter children, who, it seems now, may have no role models of their own in life._

 _(We do, of course, offer our sincerest congratulations to Harry and Ginevra.)_

 _By Rita Skeeter_


	4. Moving Day

**Prompt fill - "Hinny moving in together?"**

Mrs. Weasley cried when the news was broken to her, which baffled almost everyone else gathered in the kitchen for Sunday lunch.

"It's either because her youngest child is growing up," said George, helpfully, "or because she's going to be living in sin."

Harry choked on his drink.

"Living in sin!" Ginny repeated crossly, her ears turning fuchsia. "That's such a stupid idea, and anyway, what about you and Angelina? And Ron and Hermione will be living together now, I don't see anyone making a fuss about _that_ –"

"No one's making a fuss about you and Harry, dear, we're very happy for you," said Mrs. Weasley, mopping her eyes. "It's just – our little girl, in her first home! Oh, dears, you will come back and visit, won't you?"

Nobody felt it was worth pointing out that Ginny had moved out of the Burrow some time ago, to share a flat in Cardiff with several fellow Harpies, or that each Weasley child who had left always came back to visit frequently – with the exception of Charlie, who turned up sporadically and unexpectedly, usually sporting some horrible new burns. Sunday lunch at the Burrow was almost mandatory, which Harry didn't mind at all. He couldn't imagine ever not wanting to see the Weasleys.

"Of course we will," he said easily.

"And you will be _all right_ , won't you?" Mrs. Weasley pressed on anxiously. "Feeding yourselves, and – and cleaning, and doing your washing, and –"

"Don't say you're going to offer to _do it for them_ ," Ron interrupted, sounding scandalised. "What rubbish! Harry and I've been doing our own washing and cooking since we left here, he doesn't need any help at all! Unless," he added, his tone changing rapidly, "unless you'd like to do me and Hermione's washing, Mum, in which case –"

" _No_ ," said Hermione firmly.

"- oh all right then, but you know you hate it!"

"No one's going to do anything for us," said Ginny calmly. "We're both adults and we're perfectly capable, thank you very much."

"Well, if you're sure, dear …" Mrs. Weasley still looked worried; Harry was touched by her concern, but it was laughable, the thought that he and Ginny wouldn't be able to look after themselves, when he, Harry, was an Auror, and Ginny a professional and increasingly successful Quidditch player; to everyone else, they were competent young adults, but to Mrs. Weasley it seemed they would always be children who needed their socks washing.

"At least let us help you move," Mr Weasley suggested genially. "I wouldn't mind having another look at the place, myself."

"That's really kind of you," said Harry, "but actually Ron already offered to give up his weekend to help us –"

"Ha, ha," said Ron sardonically, surreptitiously making a very rude hand gesture in Harry's direction. "You know what, I'd love to, but I can't, I'm busy."

"Doing what?" George asked suspiciously.

"Minding my own business," said Ron.

* * *

In the end, he did come by, as did most of the Weasleys - ostensibly to help, but really to have a nose around Harry and Ginny's new home. Mr and Mrs. Weasley, characteristically, insisted on doing as much as they could, and Hermione, Percy and Bill mucked in too, but the rest were far more of a hindrance than a help in moving Harry and Ginny's things from the London and Cardiff flats.

"What's this room here?" asked George as he pulled open a door adjacent to the main bedroom and poked his head in. "Is this where you're going to keep your illegitimate children? I – _OWWW!_ "

"Sorry," said Ginny blithely, rescuing the box of books she had dropped on George's foot, "my mistake."

Downstairs, Fleur had perched herself on the sofa with baby Victoire in her arms ("I would love to 'elp, but I 'ave ze baby. Eef I deed not 'ave ze baby, I would 'elp. Eet ees most unfortunate.") and was giving a running commentary of her observations.

"Eet ees very beautiful," she was saying, approvingly. "Per'aps not as beautiful as our 'ome, but eet ees lovely still. Such a pretty place, I 'ad not been 'ere before. But ze – signs, I am not understanding zem, ze words are not Eenglish –"

"No, it's Welsh," Harry explained. "It doesn't really make sense." He'd struggled with the name of the little village when telling people where they were moving to, but when he said "it's in Wales," he would invariably receive an understanding nod.

"Well, eet ees a gorgeous place, and so near ze sea, 'ow lucky, and ze 'ouse ees so charming, I imagine you weell be very cold in ze winter, but zere is ze fireplace, so darling – Bill, eesn't eet nice?"

"Very nice," said Bill, grinning at Harry. "Well chosen. Very different from London, but I don't suppose that's a bad thing."

To Harry, it was perfect. He loved London, but often craved peace and anonymity, and could not imagine a place more perfect than the little village in the breath-taking Welsh peninsula, with its great craggy coastline and brightly painted houses: a respite from the clamour of London and the Ministry. The thought of leaving the Auror Office each day and returning to this cottage, to see Ginny, felt like more than he could have possibly wished for. He looked around the uneven living room, with its dark wooden beams and great fireplace and wooden floors already strewn with colourful woven rugs, and pictured evenings in front of the hearth; Monday mornings in the small kitchen; lazy Sunday mornings in their bedroom …

"Look at you bunch of slackers, standing around nattering," said George, coming through with a single cushion in his hand. "You sicken me, I hope you know that."

"D'you need a hand with that?" Harry asked, straight-faced, gesturing at the cushion.

"Less of the cheek, my friend, or my attitude towards you shacking up with my sister may change –"

"Well, you know where to find us if it does," said Harry.

The cushion hit him squarely in the face.

Gradually, the cottage started to take shape, and the Weasleys drifted away in twos and threes. Ron and George in particular seemed rather reluctant to leave them alone, but finally, they did, and Harry and Ginny stood in their new home, blinking at each other.

"So."

"I know. We _live_ together," said Ginny, her voice several octaves higher than usual. "We live _together!_ Alone! Oh …" She closed her eyes and flung out her arms, a blissful expression spreading over her face. "Isn't it wonderful?"

"Wonderful," Harry agreed, smiling at her. "Really, really … wonderful."

Evening had crept in, and his stomach was starting to rumble. Mrs. Weasley had, despite protests, left a pantry full of food, but Harry didn't feel much like cooking.

"I don't feel much like cooking," said Ginny, sighing. "But I'm hungry. Shall we go out?"

Harry thought for a moment.

"You know, I think I saw a chip shop in the village …"

He returned twenty minutes later, freezing cold but clutching two steaming paper-wrapped parcels, to find that Ginny had lit the fire and set candles floating around the living room, put out plates on the coffee table, and poured two glasses of wine.

"Welcome home," she said with a lascivious grin.


	5. Little Sister

**Prompt fill for "Harry and Ginny in St. Mungo's introducing James and Al to their baby sister"**

"Now," said Harry, "we're going somewhere very important today, so we need to be on our best behaviour."

His sons, who had been vigorously play-fighting only seconds earlier, looked at him uncomprehendingly.

"We need to be _very very good_ ," he added, firmly.

"Am good," said Albus.

Beside him, James stiffened.

"I _more_ good," he said challengingly, glancing at his brother. "More than Al."

Albus frowned. "Am good."

"I MORE good."

"Boys," said Harry, hurriedly placing himself between them, "boys, we don't fight …" he trailed off, as the realisation hit him that who was 'more good' was not the worst thing they could be squabbling over. In fact …

"OK," he said coaxingly, "let's see who can be the _most good_."

James eyed him consideringly. "Prize?" he demanded.

"Yes, there'll be a prize."

"Toy?"

"A-ha, you'll have to wait and see - if you can be good enough."

This seemed to have the desired effect. Both Al and James sat very still, shooting surreptitious looks at each other, and Harry breathed an inward sigh of relief. He was the Head of the Auror Department, had got himself out of numerous sticky situations – but nothing was more challenging than getting his two young sons to behave.

And it was about to get worse, he thought, with a small smile. It might be said that girls were better behaved, but if his newborn daughter was anything like her mother -

Well, he had to wonder if they would have to wait until all three had gone to Hogwarts before the house was quiet again.

Miraculously, the boys let themselves be washed, dressed and fed with minimal trouble, though Harry was sure Ginny could have done a better job. He didn't bother trying to comb their hair – it never made any difference – but he thought all three looked relatively presentable as they left the house and made their way to the hospital.

"Remember, Mummy will be very tired," he told Al and James, once the Welcome Witch had pointed them in the right direction. "So we need to be careful –"

"Why?" asked James.

"Because she's just had a baby, so –"

"Why?"

"Well, it's very difficult." Harry winced at the memory of the previous day. He had been present for the births of all three of his children (though it had been a close thing with James) and he still didn't completely understand how labour worked. All he knew was that it looked – and sounded – extremely painful, and he was not surprised that Ginny consistently threatened to remove certain parts of his body in an equally painful manner.

"Why –"

"Look, we just – we just need to be gentle with Mummy, OK?" Harry interrupted; if he didn't nip James' line of questioning in the bud, it could tend to get out of hand. "She's not up to playing right now."

"Will baby play?"

"Er – no, not yet."

"Why?"

"Oh – look, here's Mummy's room!" said Harry quickly. He tapped on the door, heard Ginny call 'come in!', and ushered the boys inside. His heart swelled at the sight of his daughter – his _daughter!_ – in her mother's arms. His eyes met Ginny's, and they shared a look: a secret, knowing smile, an unspoken acknowledgement of what they had experienced together. It was a very different atmosphere now, than it had been yesterday, frantic and hazy and dizzying, and then the stillness of the moments after, when they had met their little girl for the first time, held her. It didn't change, Harry had thought then, the feeling of becoming a parent. That wonderment, and pride, and joy - it never went away.

"Here are my boys," said Ginny from the bed, beaming at them. "Mummy's missed you!"

James and Al both started towards her, and then, remembering their father's warning, hung back warily.

"Come here," said Harry, noticing this, and he carefully swung them each onto the bed, happily taking his daughter from Ginny so she could kiss the boys and give them a one-armed hug.

"Where baby?" James asked, peering round. "Mummy, I being good –"

"Am good too," Al told his mother quietly.

"You're both being _very_ good," said Ginny amusedly, shooting Harry a look that said _how did you do that?_ "Do you want to meet your sister?"

"'Es pease," said James eagerly, so Harry perched on the edge of the bed, angling his arms so they could see into the bundle of blankets.

"This is your sister."

"Lily," said Ginny, and Harry turned to look at her so quickly he almost gave himself whiplash.

"Are you sure -?"

"Yes." Her voice was soft, but her eyes bored into him, seeing everything, knowing just how much it meant to him. "It's a lovely name. And anyway –" Her tone became bright again – "we were talking, the two of us, and she said she'd like to be called Lily, please."

"Well, I can't argue with that," said Harry, struggling to keep his voice steady. He smiled. "One day old, and already telling us what to do."

"Oh, yes. We'll be running circles around her." Ginny hesitated. "I was thinking – for a middle name –"

"Luna?"

"I – well, _yes_ , how did you know that?!"

Harry gestured at their daughter, grinning. "She told me."

"You think you know me so well, don't you …"

"Yes," said Harry. "Because I do."

He turned back to James and Al, who were starting to fidget.

"Boys – this is your sister." He paused. "Lily Luna."

They regarded her curiously.

"Is pink," said Al.

"So were you, when you were born."

"Why?" asked James.


	6. Biggest Fan

**Prompt fill - "Ginny has a match scheduled for Valentine's Day"**

Someone had draped heart-shaped bunting across the tops of all the cubicles, and irrational as it was, Harry was having to fight the urge to tear it down. He felt as if it were mocking him: it was Valentine's Day, and rather than spending it with Ginny, he was stuck in the office steeped in reports for what had been a long and tiring case, though the hours of surveillance now seemed positively thrilling compared to the paperwork. He reached the bottom of another report and scrawled his signature for what felt like the thousandth time, then shot a bitter look at the left-hand wall of his cubicle, as if his gaze could burn through the other side, where Ron should be sitting. As petty and selfish as it was, Harry might have felt better about being trapped in the office if Ron had been, too - but to general astonishment, Ron had, after going straight to Kingsley for permission, whisked Hermione off to Venice for a long weekend. "Can't see the attraction of a city that's ninety percent water, myself," he'd confided in Harry the previous day, "but Hermione was supposed to go with her parents when she was ten, but then she got a chicken disease, and she's wanted to go ever since."

"Chicken pox," was all Harry had said, as jealousy had pummelled angry fists against his chest. It was ridiculous, really, because it wasn't as if he could have taken Ginny somewhere even if he'd got the time off - for right at this moment, as he glared at a mountain of paperwork, she was most likely sitting in a changing room in Falmouth, perhaps retying her plait or flexing her fingers as she often did pre-match. It would have been nice to watch the match - Harry went to as many as he could, but given his schedule, that number was not nearly as high as he liked. He sighed as he thought of the match, which would be beginning shortly … the Harpies versus the Falcons was always a nail-biter, and Ginny was sure to be on top of her game.

An idea suddenly occurred to him as he caught sight of the wireless balancing precariously on a stack of folders. As luck would have it, Robards chose that moment to pass by Harry's cubicle: Harry leapt to his feet, calling out his boss' name.

"Sir! Could I have the radio on?"

"As long as you keep it down," Robards replied briskly without breaking his gait. Harry cheered inwardly and pointed his wand at the radio, quickly lowering the volume: he tuned it to the right station just as a voice announced that the game had begun.

It was a gripping match, even from miles away, behind a desk: Falmouth were as brutal as ever, according to the rapid commentary, and Harry's heart leapt into his mouth every time he heard Ginny's name - and then soared as she scored goal after goal. When the commentator cried, "Farrell's got the Snitch! Holyhead wins!", Harry had to drive his heels into the floor to stop himself from jumping up and punching the air. His work had moved had a much slower rate for the duration of the match, yes - but it was only paperwork, and in this case, he would put his girlfriend first, every time.

But he found it hard to concentrate even after the radio was switched off, as his mind kept wandering to Ginny, picturing her red-faced and beaming as she performed a lap of victory …

"Working hard, or hardly working?"

For a moment, he thought he was still imagining things: that his desire to see Ginny had conjured up an illusion. But then he blinked, and she was still there, grinning at him from the entrance of his cubicle, still in her Harpies robes and covered in mud.

"Hardly working," he said as he pushed back his chair and got up. "What are you doing here? I thought you'd be celebrating with the team -"

"Oh, we've done that enough times, they can miss me just this - wait," said Ginny, looking suddenly puzzled. "How did you know we won? It was barely ten minutes ago!"

Harry pointed to the wireless. Ginny's expression softened. "You listened to the match?"

"Well, since I couldn't be there …" he shrugged. "I'm sorry, I wanted to be, I wanted to spend the whole day with you but -"

"But nothing," said Ginny firmly. "The Auror department needs Harry Potter, I get it." She moved into the cubicle; Harry strode forwards and met her in the middle.

"Do you?" he teased, looking down at her as his arms encircled her waist.

"Well, I certainly want him," Ginny murmured with a wicked glint in her eye that made Harry grow warm. "Say … I know you've been hardly working, you slacker - listening to the Quidditch at work, goodness me! - but d'you think you could possibly take off early?"

"I'll see what I can do," said Harry, his mouth dry. He had never been more determined not to take no for an answer.


End file.
